


To Dare A Tiger

by KoreArabin



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows (2010)
Genre: Anal Play, Anilingus, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fisting, Kissing, M/M, Rimming, Sexual Experimentation, Sexual Violence, references to murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:46:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoreArabin/pseuds/KoreArabin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Professor Moriarty wants to experience something new.  His tiger is prowling, seeking a release for his anger and frustration.</p><p>The Professor finds a way to achieve both, with a simple dare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When the Professor returns to their hotel suite, just off of the Place Vendôme, he is unsurprised to discover Moran pacing the carpet before the hearth in a state of great agitation. The Colonel's greatcoat, muffler and hat lie thrown untidily on one of the armchairs and, judging by the decanter and the empty glass set somewhat haphazardly on the side table, the Colonel has consumed a tumbler of brandy fairly briskly since returning to the hotel.

"Moran? Speak to me, Colonel. It could not be helped."

Moran turns to look at him, his face drawn and white with anger, his eyes reddened and blazing with passion. "It could not be helped? I _know_ that, Sir. _We know_ that this was a betrayal of the bloody worst kind, the _worst_ kind, Professor, by one of our _own_ , damn him!"

"And? Has the snake in the grass, the _Judas_ in our midst, received his comeuppance, hmmmm?"

"Yes, Sir. After the damned Ambassador cried off and never arrived for the engagement, I knew the game was up. That little bastard blower's got his just deserts alright, Sir. If them _gendarmes_ ever fish him out of the Seine, there ain't no-one goin' to be recognising him no more, damn his eyes."

The Professor touches his marksman's shoulder gently. "You did well, Sebastian. You have turned what could have been a disastrous breach in confidentiality, and you have smoothed it over and eliminated the breach himself. Well done indeed, Colonel."

He turns to the side table and pours them each a generous measure of brandy, handing one to Moran.

"But it is the bloody duplicity of it what gets me, Sir. I thought Pincher was a bloke I could rely on. He'd been an army lad and with you for how many years, Sir? For him to go and blow his bloody whistle about the Ambassador, well, I'd never have thought it of him, Sir."

Moriarty regards Sebastian with a barely repressed fondness. For all his violence, his viciousness, and his willingness to kill without remorse, Moran is very much an innocent, a _bleeding heart_ where matters of individual loyalty and, above all loyalty to his employer, are concerned. The Professor knows that it is not the fact that Moran's long wait on the freezing Paris roof top for his mark ended in frustration, nor that he has dispatched a colleague of some year's acquaintance (after rendering the unfortunate man's body unrecognisable, it appears) which have left the sniper in such a fit of agitation. 

No, it is the betrayal of a loyalty which Moran would have assumed was unshakeable, by a fellow former soldier, which has provoked this passion, and the Professor knows Moran too well by now to allow him to dwell on this episode, to allow him to sink into melancholy and false solace in the bottle. For too many years, before entering the Professor's employment, Moran was prone to do exactly that, after a blow like this, and Moriarty will not countenance allowing that to happen to him now.

"It is done. We do not know why, after several year's service, Pincher should take it into his head to pass on this information, Sebastian. But thankfully we _do_ know that he did not know _enough_ of my plans to jeopardise them. All he achieved was a delay in bringing about the good Ambassador's unfortunate demise. My stratagem is still quite, quite intact. All I have to do... is wait."

The Professor stands behind Moran then, before the fire, places his tumbler on the mantelpiece and begins to massage the knots from his sniper's tense shoulders. "So, we shall put this _hiccough_ behind us, and we shall forget about the Ambassador for the time being and, in the interim, until the good fellow _does_ end up on the wrong end of one of your splendid shots, my dove, we shall _enjoy_ the myriad _pleasures_ which Paris has to offer us."

Moran relaxes slightly at the Professor's touch, with a rather doubtful _hmmmmm_ , but the tension thrumming through his lean body is still palpable. Moriarty caresses the side of Sebastian's neck, before opening the connecting doors to their right and stepping through into the bed chamber.

Removing his shoes and jacket, he sits on the edge of the bed. "Come here to me, Sebastian, come here to the bed and embrace me." Sebastian stalks through into the room, kicking his shoes aside, and stripping off his jacket, tie and collar. He kneels before the Professor, pulling his face down so that they are level, and touches his lips to Moriarty's. 

Sebastian's lips are warm against the Professor's, and Moriarty presses forwards, hard, pushing Sebastian back under the force of his kiss, his tongue sliding between the sniper's lips, thrusting, opening his mouth up to him. Sebastian tastes vaguely of tobacco and strongly of the brandy he has just consumed. Then Sebastian's hands are in his hair, holding him tight as their tongues curl around each other, pushing back against Moriarty, forcing him down on to the counterpane so that Sebastian is sprawled across him, their mouths still crushed together. Sebastian pulls back momentarily to look down at his lover stretched back against the bed. Moriarty's eyes are closed, but flutter apart to stare up Sebastian, blue locked on blue, blown with arousal, his lips swollen and red.

Sebastian kisses him again, then, his passion turning almost to savagery as he bites at Moriarty's lips, forcing his tongue hard into his lover's mouth, claiming it in a snarling clash of lips and teeth and tongues, relishing the burn of moustache and beard against moustache and beard, whilst all the while the barely repressed mantra of violence and domination beats at the hinterland of his consciousness: take, hurt, devour, _mine_.

The Professor struggles back against him, managing to get an arm up and a hand tangled into Sebastian's hair, wrenching his head upwards and twisting him away and to the side until Moran has no option but to roll off of him. For some moments they struggle together on the bed, both striving for dominance, both attempting to overpower and subdue the other.

"You forget, Colonel, my boxing prowess. I am no mere weakling for you to crush and conquer. If you want a tussle, by God I shall give it to you. You think yourself a scrapper but, believe me, I shall bring the scrap to you, my boy."

With this, Moriarty lands a glacing blow on Moran's cheekbone, snapping his head to the side, before kicking a leg in between those of his sniper and bringing his knee up between his thighs. Sebastian's eyes sparkle with arousal as he relishes their struggle, relishes the opportunity to release the violence and frustration which have been been thrumming through him since he left the bitter roof top that morning.

He crosses his legs and turns, twisting the Professor's leg between his, eliciting a cry of pain from Moriarty as his thigh and knee are wrenched by the sudden movement. He straddles the Professor, forcing his wrists above his head with one head, and holding his face in the other, his fingers splayed against his cheek and temple, his thumb curling under Moriarty's jaw. 

"A scrapper? Oh, yes, Sir, you know me too well, by God. But I shall have you, Sir. I shall _take_ you, hard, and fill you, and you shall be mine."

Moriarty struggles in his grasp, but is unable to free his wrists or his head, as Moran digs his thumb harder into the underside of his jaw. He gasps, his eyes glittering jet black ringed with sapphire blue in arousal, and Sebastian can feel his lover's manhood stiff and warm against his thigh through his clothing.

"Fill me? Oh, I know that you can do that, _boy_ , just as I have done to you, on so, so _many_ occasions. But can you really take me, really fill me, open me up so that I am stretched out beyond endurance, begging for mercy as you impale me on your arm? Can you do that, _boy_? Do you have the _courage_ to truly master me?"

Sebastian stares at him, the red mist of anger and sexual arousal clouding his vision vying within his consciousness with his deep, unswerving wish to protect this man, to do nothing that might hurt him beyond that which he can endure. He knows that Moriarty is no fragile flower, yet every instinct within him clashes with the passionate wish to take his Master, to use him as he has said. Despite himself, the thought, the _vision_ , of the Professor totally taken apart, stretched out beneath him, totally opened up to him, has his manhood throbbing painfully in his crisp linen underclothes. But he knows the Professor's games, his _stratagems_ , as the Professor likes to term them.

He growls into Moriarty's face. "Do not manipulate me, Sir! You shall not twist me in this way. I can't have it, Sir!"

Moriarty grinds up against him, then, rubbing his erection against Sebastian's, letting forth a low moan of arousal.

"Oh, Sebastian, my dove, my good _boy_ , I know that I cannot make you do that which you do not truly wish to do, just as I would never _make_ you do anything you did not truly wish to do,. No, no, _boy_ , in this case I know that you want this. You want to dominate me, punish me, open me up to such a sensation of being truly taken. Of being utterly yours, stretched out as you decide whether I am pleasured or punished. And I want you to do it. I want to feel the force of your passion as you use me. So, my dear, brave, _fearsome_ tiger, I _dare_ you. I _dare_ you to do this."

Sebastian breathes hard through his open mouth. A dare? Bloody bastard Professor, damn him, he knows that he is quite, quite unable to resist the lure of a dare, to resist the temptation not to do something that he shouldn't, when he wants to, but doesn't want to. He cannot resist. "Very well then, _Sir_. You provoke a tiger, then on your head be what ensues. Remove your clothes."


	2. Chapter 2

Moriarty does not break eye contact with Moran as he slowly undoes his tie and removes the studs from his collar. Despite his customary meticulousness, he throws both tie and collar to the floor, his concentration focussed entirely on ensuring that his disrobing is as erotic as it possibly can be for his lover. He unbuttons his waistcoat, his only deference to his habitual fastidiousness the care with which he unfastens his American railroad pocket watch and places it on the bedside table. Shrugging the waistcoat off, Moriarty runs his long, elegant fingers over his shirt, hinting at the swollen nubs of his nipples standing up below the cotton, before unfastening the top buttons to reveal the smattering of auburn hair just below the dip of his throat.

Sebastian swallows thickly, his gaze raking over his lover's pale, freckled chest, before dipping down to nuzzle and lick at the slight hollow below his Adam's apple, breathing in Moriarty's warm, clean, masculine scent, underlain with the subtle hint of his cologne. Moriarty slips his braces from his shoulders and then pulls the shirt over his head, followed by his undershirt, allowing Sebastian to kiss and suckle his way down to his nipples, his breath tripping as the suckling turns to biting as Moran worries at the steadily swelling nubs with his teeth and tongue.

Sebastian's voice is hoarse. "Unfasten your trousers. Let me taste you."

Moriarty teases Moran, taking his time as he runs his fingertips over the pronounced bulge at his crotch, moistening his lips as he does so, making his sniper wait. By the time he has eventually unbuttoned the fly and pushed the trousers off, with his underclothes, in one smooth gesture, Sebastian's pupils are completely dark and dilated, his breathing unsteady as he kneels over him, his own arousal evident in the small spot of fluid which has seeped through the material of his trousers at the tip of his straining cock.

Sebastian pushes the Professor's thighs up and back, spreading his legs, so that he can better lie between them and access his lover's crotch. He nuzzles the warm space between his balls and thigh before licking up Moriarty's length and tonguing the leaking slit roughly. The Professor hisses, bringing his legs round to lie loosely over Sebastian's shoulders, pushing himself up into his sniper's mouth, aching for more friction, more wetness, more heat, on his swollen cock.

Sebastian sucks hard at Moriarty's cockhead, tonguing insistently at the slit and rolling his testicles in his fingers in the way he knows the Professor adores, whilst his lover writhes under him, moaning and thrusting. Moriarty rouses himself enough from his ecstacy to look down at his Sebastian, and the sight of his _dove's_ mouth tight around his shaft, lips swollen red and slicked with saliva, is almost enough to make him climax on the spot.

"Christ, Sebastian! Don't suck me! Lick me! Tongue me, _God_. _Prepare_ me!"

Mercifully, Sebastian understands his lover's cries and, again pushing Moriarty's legs back so that his thighs are folded nearly back against his chest, pushes a pillow beneath his hips, tilting his backside upwards. Spreading the Professor's buttocks wide, he buries his face between them, flicking his tongue over the tight, pink, opening, before pressing in to lave more forceful, saliva-slick, wet, sweeps of his tongue over his lover's anus. He teases the sensitive pucker, the tip of his tongue licking, _cajoling, coaxing_ it to relax and open to him.

And it does, Moriarty's pink ring of muscle alternatively opening and closing, fluttering around Sebastian's tongue as he pushes further into his lover, until his face is flush with his perineum and he can force himself inside no deeper. 

"Ah! Dear God! God!" Moriarty's head is thrown back, his mouth open. Never have they together consummated such an intensely private, physical act, yet Sebastian cares nothing for that. All he wants, now that his lover is so consumed with passion, is to open him up further, to stretch him out as he has asked, to possess him utterly and to _devour_ him.


	3. Chapter 3

Moran pulls himself away with difficulty, and stands at the foot of the bed, drinking in the sight of the Professor, flushed with arousal, his legs spread lewdly and his manhood standing up stiff and weeping against his belly. Sebastian strokes himself through his trousers; he is still virtually fully dressed, in contrast to his employer, something he does not intend to remedy any time soon. No, the disparity between them at the moment is too delicious; the Professor splayed out like a whore whilst he is dressed and, apart from his erection, remarkably unflustered.

The Professor has asked to be used, to be filled up and to be made to beg. And, damn him, he has _dared_ him, knowing that Moran can never resist a dare. Well, he shall have what he has asked for, but it shall be done according to Sebastian's wishes and appetites.

"Take one of the bolsters, _Sir_ , and lay yourself over it. Face down, legs apart, backside tilted upwards."

The Professor opens his mouth to speak. "No, Sebastian, I would rather...."

He is cut off in mid-sentence as Moran climbs back on to the bed and is upon him in a trice, one hand twisted in his hair and the other at his throat. "No, _Sir_. If we do this, we do this my way. You will obey me, or we do not do it at all, is that clear?" When Moriarty does not answer, Moran shakes his head by the hair. "I _said_ , is that _clear_?"

For perhaps the first time since Sebastian has known him, a flicker of fear appears in the Professor's eyes. It lasts only momentarily, to be replaced almost immediately by the darkness and dilation of lust. Oh, _yes_. It appears that the Master is enjoying his tiger unsheathing his claws. Moriarty nods, takes one of the thick bolsters and places it across the bed, draping himself over it as he has been instructed, rests his forehead on his crossed wrists, and waits.

Sebastian pushes aside his braces and strips off his shirt and undershirt, retaining his trousers. He shifts between Moriarty's legs, pushing his thighs apart, the tweed of his trousers vaguely itchy against the smooth, sensitive skin of Moriarty's inner thighs. Moriarty feels his buttocks being spread open, Sebastian simply lingering there, rubbing the calloused tip of one thumb over his opening. He feels totally submissive like this, open, exposed, waiting, almost like a mare waiting to be mounted by her stallion. The thought of Sebastian _mounting_ him has his cock twitching against the bolster and his hole fluttering and clenching, and he longs to be opened up and penetrated, stretched out until he is left moaning and breathless and unable to take any more.

Sebastian reaches over to the bedside table and then Moriarty feels something cold and wet being poured over his backside, running down and dripping into the crease between them. Sebastian slides his hands over his buttocks, kneading the firm flesh, and slips his thumbs into the shadowed crevice between them, stroking the Professor intimately, across his stuttering opening, down to his perineum and the back of his testicles, then up again, teasing at his lover's hole, making it twitch in anticipation. He pours more oil down into the crease, letting it run down over his hands, making the whole area wet and slick.

Moriarty shivers as Sebastian's fingers breach him; one at first, stretching him out, Sebastian stroking lightly inside him, allowing him to relax and adjust to the penetration. Moriarty feels another finger slip in beside the first, followed by more oil, and then another finger, stretching and caressing him, and he gasps aloud at the feeling of wetness between his buttocks. He opens his thighs even more, pushing himself up and back on to Sebastian's fingers. He groans, needing more, needing to be stuffed full and to be made to writhe in wanton abandon beneath his tiger and, as thin rivulets of oil trickle out of his stretched hole as Sebastian continues to work it, he feels even more like a whore, soaking wet and aching for it.

His voice is strained, quiet. "Please. Please, Sebastian, please. More."


	4. Chapter 4

The Professor is unaccustomed to begging. It is normally _he_ who savours forcing his sexual partners to beg _him_ for relief. Indeed, with Moran, he has achieved some of the most satisfying sexual experiences of his life, able to release his dominating and sadistic urges on his sniper, to humiliate him and to inflict pain upon him, and Moran appears to be able to cope with and crave such degradation. Moriarty has never before encountered such an enthusiastically submissive and masochistic sexual partner, and he consequently relishes Sebastian’s perverted and inverted appetites.

But this, this position of being the submissive partner, of having to be a supplicant in one’s debauchment, is proving to be an unexpectedly potent aphrodisiac. Moriarty has wanted to experience this most intimate, and most lewd of sexual acts, for some time. On first reading of this sexual practice in a rather esoteric publication, said publication of course labelled degenerate and obscene by so many of his contemporaries, even his fellow inverts, he dismissed the practice as a fantasy, as something that must surely be a physical impossibility. 

However, on further reading and research, in particular after studying medical literature on the anatomy of the human body, he concluded that the act was, in fact, physically possible and, given the many nerve endings in the human anus and rectum, would most possibly be an extremely pleasurable experience.

Certainly it piqued his interest most considerably; modest and meticulous in his every day habits, his sexual appetites have always run towards those of the hedonist and the sybarite.

The Professor could have, of course, inveigled Moran into taking his arm; the good Colonel is, quite frankly, a bitch in heat of the highest order when aroused and inflamed with passion. But this, Moriarty wished to experience for himself; if pleasurable, something with which to indulge himself or to reward Moran; if painful, something with which to punish Moran. If both pleasurable and painful, yet another tool of dominance and control to wield over his devoted sniper.

For just as the Professor prizes the feral nature of his leashed tiger, the violence and danger always lurking just beneath that sinewy, freckled exterior, he also relishes the control he can exert over him. The good Colonel is, after all, a sexual slave to him in all but name.

But, for now, he will relinquish and forgo the immensely intellectual and physical stimulation which he derives from such control, and surrender himself to the simple, sexual pleasures of the flesh.

“ _Please_ , Sebastian, open me.”

Moran continues to press against his opening, all four fingers now sunk inside him to the knuckles, twisting and pushing, slowly working open the tight ring of muscle. Moriarty breathes deeply, his eyes closed, his hips pressing back against Sebastian’s thrusts, exhaling loudly as the pain of penetration gradually eases as the muscles relax and Moran is able to fold his hand into a tube and push the tip of his thumb in alongside his fingers.

The pleasure-pain is indescribable as the thickest part of Moran’s folded hand begins to press relentlessly into him, Sebastian twisting his wrist and pouring more oil over his hand to enable it to slip inside his lover. After what seems like an eternity, when there is nothing in the room except the men’s laboured breathing, interspersed with low, deep, groans, and the slick, wet, sound of flesh pressing into flesh, Moran’s knuckles at last slip past Moriarty’s sphincter and Sebastian presses in until his wrist is gripped by the stretched, swollen, ring of muscle.


	5. Chapter 5

Sebastian stares at his arm, almost not comprehending that his hand and wrist are now buried inside his lover’s body. The Professor’s internal muscles stutter and clench around him but, as wonderful and curious those sensations are, they are overwhelmed by what Sebastian suddenly realises is the rhythmic thump of Moriarty’s heartbeat. Sebastian is almost overcome with emotion; he is deep inside the Professor, and he can feel his heartbeat; he can feel the Professor’s lifeblood coursing through his body, the pulse of his very life beating steadily against his fisted hand.

“Sir. _Sir_. I can feel your heart. I can feel it beating.”

The Professor stirs, overcome with sensation, only able to utter a hoarse whisper. “S'il vous plaît, en français, ma colombe.”

Sebastian smiles, familiar with the Professor’s fetish for articulating eroticism in foreign tongues. He leans over his lover, whispering low in his ear, “J'entends ton cœur, mon chéri,” before beginning to move his arm slowly in and out of his lover’s body. 

Moriarty concentrates on his breathing. He did not, he could not, imagine how it would feel, to be so very, very open, so full, so totally under the control of another human being. For a moment, he is almost overwhelmed with panic; Sebastian could do almost anything to him like this, could hurt him quite irreparably if he chose to do so. But the moment of panic is only fleeting; he knows Sebastian would rather lay down his own life than allow harm to befall his beloved Master. Moriarty smothers down the unwelcome feelings and allows himself to luxuriate in the sensations Moran’s movements are producing inside him.

He is on a precipice, balanced so precariously between pleasure and pain. The pleasure of being so full, so _stuffed_ , every nerve ending inside pulsing and alive with sensation, making him want to rut on the intrusion, to have it pushed deeper inside him, forced into him until he cries out at the fullness and pressure.

But pain also, not bad pain, but the erotic pain of being stretched, of the unfamiliar sensation of being filled in places where one is unaccustomed to being filled. 

Unbidden, the word _arête_ pops into his mind, unexpected since Moriarty does not recall ever being very interested in geography as a schoolboy, and that is undoubtedly where the memory springs from. But the term is very apt he thinks, visualising himself poised on the knife-like ridge of rock, between the two steep escarpments of pleasure and pain.

Moriarty pushes back, rutting himself hard against Sebastian, moaning in ecstasy as his arm slips even deeper inside him, the stretch in his passage ensuring that his prostate is being stimulated virtually constantly. Then Moran’s hand is on his cock, warm and slick with oil, and he is torn between thrusting forwards into that hot, tight, channel and pushing back to impale himself further on Sebastian’s arm.

Moran continues to move his arm inside him, all the time opening him up wider and deeper, and Moriarty is dimly aware that Sebastian is rutting his clothed cock against his thigh and buttock. "Sir. My arm is right up your arse, Sir. _James_. Writhe and moan for me, James. _Fuck_ yourself on me. Fuck yourself and moan for my arm while I milk your cock."

Moran’s coarse language, combined with the contractions of his muscles deep within himself, has Moriarty moaning like a whore, working himself constantly on to Moran’s arm whilst his cock is pumped hard from root to tip in time with his writhing. Moriarty can feel his impending orgasm building up exponentially and then, when Sebastian suddenly flexes his fist deep inside him, it is all he needs to soar up and over that precipice, riding wave after wave of sensation as they crash over him, the stretch of penetration magnifying the usual delicious internal spasms of climax, making him cry out, again and again, in ecstasy, as his cock pulses great gouts of his seed on to the bolster and the counterpane.

Moriarty comes to to the sensation of his back being gently stroked. “Sir? Sir, are you alright?” Sebastian is caressing him, and he realises that he must have passed out after (or perhaps during) his orgasm; little wonder that the French term it _la petite mort_ , although it is somewhat disconcerting to contemplate that one’s body could feel so much pleasure that it “died”, and even more so to discover that his cheeks are wet with tears. 

Moran is working his arm out of his body as gently as he can, to avoid hurting him, but somehow that only makes him feel even more utterly opened out and more utterly used, and it barely registers when Sebastian leans in to kiss him gently on his closed eyelids, murmuring something about a bath.

He allows himself to be wrapped in a thick dressing gown, and lead or, rather, virtually carried, through into the bath chamber, where a steaming hot, delicately scented bath is running. It is only after Sebastian has lifted him into the water and he has soaked drowsily for some minutes that his senses begin to return to him.

Sebastian washes him carefully, gently soaping away his sweat and tears, and cleansing and rinsing his hair. Satisfied with his ministrations, Sebastian dries him off gently but thoroughly and dresses him in a fresh dressing gown, before carrying him back through to the bedroom and laying him down on the bed. The soiled counterpane and bolster have been replaced with a thick silken eiderdown and fresh pillows, and Sebastian slips beneath the covers to snuggle up to his exhausted Master.

“Well, my dove, that was – exquisite. Truly exquisite. Thank you, my dear Sebastian.” Moran strokes his hair and cheek, their faces inches apart as he holds Moriarty close to him.

“It was delicious to watch you in such passion, Sir. I loved it, Sir. I loved being able to do so much for you.”

Moriarty smiles, tiredly. “For now, my _dear_ Sebastian, call me by my given name of James, and hold me tight to you. I have not felt such exhaustion, such _fragility_ , for a very, very long time. I need your strength and your comfort, my dove.” So saying, he relaxes into Sebastian’s embrace and is asleep almost instantaneously.

And Sebastian, all the thoughts and cares of the day long since banished from his mind, sighs a sigh of deep contentment and listens to his lover’s gentle breathing, before whispering, "Good night, my dear, _dear_ James," closing his eyes and joining him in sleep.


End file.
